


A Case of Twelve

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-08
Updated: 2011-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:43:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes receives a gift of wine from a satisfied client. He and Watson embark on a wine-tasting session with revelations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Case of Twelve

It was a hot summer’s day in London, whereby the very tarmacadam on Baker Street and its surrounds seemed to seethe and bubble in a fury as I wended home after a long day on my rounds. I was weary, thirsty and in want of calm and relaxation. I heaved myself slowly up the seventeen steps and entered the sitting-room of 221B.

Holmes was kneeling in the centre of the room, wielding a crowbar and seemingly intent upon massacring the lid of a wooden case which sat upon the carpet. He looked up as I walked in, and waved a greeting.

“Watson! You’re back at last, whatever have you been doing? A warm day is no excuse for you to be travelling at a snail’s pace, my dear fellow. Look! A happy client has given us this.”

He fanned his hands to present the booty. A faint blue motif and lettering which I could not read was stamped across all sides of it.

“What is inside, Holmes?”

“Wine. Wine is inside the case, Watson. Twelve bottles of the finest mix of Bordeaux, Burgundy, and, I believe - yes - Champagne.”

“That is a very generous gift from your client, Holmes,” said I. “Our cellar is presently home only to the mice and rats of London, but this will fill it up a - Holmes, whatever are you doing?”

My friend had produced a corkscrew and was hacking at the wax seal on one of the bottles.

“I propose a wine-tasting,” said he, “and I propose it this instant. I have spent the most unimaginably tiresome day listening to Lestrade and that idiot Gregson gabble on about a whole airy nothing, when what I really was hoping for was - my word, this cork is truly stuck - what I was really hoping for was some information on the case of Peggotty the Alligator Smuggler.”

“Peggotty the Alligator Smuggler?” I asked, in a daze, watching as Holmes opened each of the bottles one by one, presenting them in a long row upon the table as though they might be awarded medals for bravery.

“Yes, I have mentioned him before. He of the wooden hand and stump leg.”

“How did he manage to lose both - oh.”

“He wasn’t a very proficient alligator smuggler, Watson. At any rate, he’s running, or rather, hopping loose, and Lestrade and Co. are flailing around in their usual inept fashion about 300 steps behind him. And today they could only speak to me of the weather, and their wives’ demands for new hats, and I do not know what else. I slipped into a semi-conscious study after an hour of it.”

“Holmes,” I interrupted, a stricken look upon my face, “you are not paying attention to what you are doing. You have just opened the entire case of wine! It will surely spoil now.”

“Not if we drink it, Watson,” said he. He produced two wine glasses from the sideboard, and offered one to me.

“I have had nothing to eat all day, Holmes! I fear that tasting all these bottles will make me extremely light-headed.”

“Well, have a biscuit then, before we start. Really, Watson, why must you be thinking of your stomach at a time like this? Hmm, the Bordeaux first, I think.” And he proceeded to fill our glasses a third-full with the rich, red liquid.

“Remember, Watson,” said he, “this is a wine-tasting, so none of your usual gulp and swill. Follow protocol.”

I looked at my glass and listened to my rumbling stomach. “What is protocol?”

“Swirl, sniff and, in this case, swallow, my dear boy. For the professional wine-taster the latter would be replaced by ‘spit’, but we do not wish to spit.”

“We don’t?”

“Well no, of course not. That would be both a terrible waste and an awful ruin of the carpet. Swirl!”

I swirled the wine glass. It was barely a third full and yet the liquid rose dangerously close to the lip. I took a hesitant sniff.

“What can you smell, Watson?”

I took another sniff. It smelled grapey. I had the good foresight to realise that if I dared to inform Holmes that it smelled “grapey” then he would hurl me bodily down the stairs with my collar up around my ears.

“It smells of… wood shavings, black cherries and the inside of a lady’s handbag, Holmes.”

Holmes’s eyes widened. “Really?” He swirled and sniffed. “How strange, I am not getting any of those three things. Not that I make a habit of sniffing ladies' handbags, you understand, Watson. I am reluctant to speculate how you came by that knowledge. Please continue.”

“Erm,” I swirled, sniffed and took another mouthful. “Now I am getting an essence of boot wax - very delicate, Holmes - and a hint of over-ripe strawberry.”

“Good gracious, Watson, it seems that you are a natural at this wine-tasting lark. All I seem to be summoning up is a blackcurrant. Let us try a different bottle.”

I might have protested, feebly, but Holmes had snatched away my empty glass and was refilling it with an ornately labelled Burgundy. He thrust it back to me, and I smiled weakly. “Thank you.”

Our tasting session progressed. Our descriptions became ever more lurid.

“This one tastes of banana, acorn and shelf dust, Holmes!”  
“It is an explosion of breadcrumbs, damp dog and oak-leaf!”  
“But this one is better, for it has notes of bird-wing, a cold winter’s breeze and a kumquat!”

“Holmes,” I said, one hour later, “I do not feel at all well.”

Holmes peered at me from one eye. It was all he could do, for his other was pasted shut. “Watson, my dear fellow, I must confess, neither do I. It cannot be the wine, for we only swirled, sniffed and sipped it. It must be the fault of Mrs. Hudson’s undercooked breakfast eggs.”

“It must surely be the eggs, Holmes.”

“I can see three of you, Watson!”

I shook my head but it only served to agitate the speed with which the room appeared to be spinning. “We must eat some biscuits immediately, otherwise Mrs. Hudson will scold us dreadfully if she brings up dinner later and we are in this state.” I attempted to stand, but fell back into my chair with a groan. With Holmes’s assistance we managed to reach the table, where we sat and rested our elbows and looked at each other.

“You are my very best friend, Watson,” said Holmes, beaming an off-kilter smile at me. “You are my Wosbell, my friend and you have saved my life on more occasions than I care to admit.”

“I am your Wosbell?”

“Yes. Damn those eggs!” Holmes placed a heavy arm around my shoulder. “Remember always, Watson, that age will never wither, nor custom stale, your infinite variety.”

“Holmes, I would be very touched if I had the faintest idea as to what that meant.”

“You may never know, and tomorrow you will have forgotten that I ever said it. The eggs speak for me, my dear fellow, and yet the words are most sincere.”

He stood, then, and moved to the fireplace, where he lit himself a cigarette and blew smoke into the face of Henry Ward Beecher, saying nothing further but humming quietly.

I surveyed the row of half-full and barely tasted bottles still littering the table surface, and concentrated my thought. No, tomorrow I would not forget. Tomorrow I would remember, and smile.


End file.
